


Mulder Wears Levis

by icedteainthebag



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Dominance, F/M, Frottulism, fully clothed sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedteainthebag/pseuds/icedteainthebag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frottage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mulder Wears Levis

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick fic written to prove that Mulder being fully clothed and pressing Scully into a mattress is sexy.

Mulder stands in front of her and undresses her quietly near the foot of her bed, piece by piece, and when he’s finished Scully stands in front of him, her heart racing and fingers nervously tapping at her thighs. Their sex is new enough that a small part of her still questions his approval of her body, even though every night culminates in him making her feel like the sexiest woman in the world.

  
She’s so small standing in front of him without her heels, tiptoes on the carpet as he stoops low to kiss her. Gently at first, his lips pull at hers, his hand on the back of her head pulls her closer and her bare breasts tingle as they brush against his thermal shirt. His kisses are precise, investigative, rarely lazy.

  
She can’t help how her arm slides around his sturdy waist or how her leg twines around his denim-covered calf, his soft tongue lightly touching hers and pulling away. She can’t help the moan of need that emerges when he breaks their kiss, nor the pulsing heat gathering between her thighs.  


Those strong hands, paws maybe, reach down to grab her ass and it fits into them perfectly as he hikes her up. She thinks about the wetness she’s surely leaving on the front of his shirt when her legs wrap around him. Her hands weave through the back of his hair and they stare into each other’s eyes. Sometimes it’s hard to find a quiet moment with this man. She wonders if it’s this quiet inside his head–most likely not.

  
He places her on the duvet, against her collection of decorative pillows, and her mouth longs for his return. She stretches her body out, on display for him, and he crawls over her still fully clothed. One of his hands grabs her wrist and she lets her arm go limp so he can pull it above her head and hold it there. His grip is not painful, but not loose. She’s been held like this before, but not by him.

  
He lodges one of his thighs between her bare legs and settles down onto her, his gaze a cross between wonder and desire, and she is pressed into her bed at the small amount of weight he is putting on her body. This thigh of his brushes against her heat and she moans, unable to keep her hips from reacting. The thick denim is rough against her delicate flesh but it makes her pant, makes her instantly grow hotter. She arches her hips toward him and he thankfully reciprocates by grinding his leg harder against her. Her clit sparks when it’s touched. His grip on her wrist tightens at the whimper that escapes her.

  
His shirt loose against her chest, she puts her free hand on the tense muscles of the arm that is holding his body tenuously above her. Her fingernails gather fabric and hold on tight as she grinds against him, the pace of her rolling hips increasing. She’s wet against this stiff fabric, this hard, bound muscle, and her head turns to the side as she begins to lose herself in the motion and sensation of it all. His body is reacting to hers–his leg hard-pressed against her pussy, his hardened dick straining through his jeans to rub against her abdomen. He begins to moan in response to her sounds and his breathing catches up to her frenzied pace.

  
The pleasure/pain of his leg firmly planted against her clit is something she’s rarely experienced but it catches her on fire inside and she suddenly, desperately, wants to come on him, wants to make him wear these jeans in the morning when he cooks her breakfast barefoot. He’s marked.

  
“Mulder,” she moans, humping his leg in a frenzy now, shifting the angle of her hips so that her clit gets more stimulation.

  
“Give it to me, Scully.” His voice is hoarse, low, and her last view of him is his intense look of need before she closes her eyes and loses herself. Her nipples taut against the dangling fabric of his shirt, her wrist still caught up in his grip, she writhes and presses her body down on his thigh with all her might, rubbing herself all over him, a rhythmic line of whimpers escaping her lips.

  
She feels the orgasm building and wants to catch it–she concentrates on the growing blossom of pleasure deep inside of her, spreading outward, emerging from her body. “Yeah, yeah,” she indicates through gritted teeth, and he draws in a sharp breath and bears down on her heavily, so heavily she feels engulfed by him, his cologne reacting to the heat of the quickened pulse in his neck.

  
This orgasm is not light and delicate. It’s maddening, sloppy and desperate, and she cries out several times before it finally hits her with such relief that she laughs in the middle of it, convinced their bodies are now attached at his thigh. Her body is floating on it, head dizzy and clit throbbing. She’s so wet she can smell her own scent.

  
“Take your clothes off,” she says softly.

  
He smiles and reaches for the button of his jeans.


End file.
